And no, I’m not complaining. They put me in a hotel on the harbor with about 1,000 boats right out my window. Today, I walked from my hotel room to the ocean, then had a fresh seafood dinner that I did not share with seagulls. On the way back to my room, I watched a great blue heron pluck a fish out of the water and swallow it.

Nope. No complaints here.

Anyway, I’m working on a WordPress-related project and, to do so, I had to find a bunch of sample WordPress blogs. One of them is just too funny not to share: Sir Satire’s Weblog. Don’t hesitate — go there right now and read it. It’s hilarious. Like another version of The Onion.

For example, today’s blog post is titled “Tax on human gas emissions gains support in Congress” begins:

A tax on human gas emissions has gained the support of at least one member of Congress, but critics are blasting the proposal and say that its proponents are just full of hot air.

Proponents of the “flatutax,” as it has been dubbed by critics, say that human emissions are often overlooked when discussing global warming issues. Human beings contribute greenhouse gases to the atmosphere during the digestive process, they say, and a tax would provide an incentive to curb those emissions.

Get the idea? Funny stuff!

Are you still here? You’re not going to read anything more interesting here, at least for a few days. Go on over and check out Sir Satire. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

I’m deep into preparations for my summer-long trip to Washington State and Page, AZ. And it seems that every other week, I’m traveling. And I have two video training courses to record for clients. And I caught a bit of a bug that had me out of action for about a day and a half.

And the W key on my MacBook Pro is not being very responsive.

I’ve also been reading, and when I read, I have less time to write.

Those are just some of the excuses I can offer as to why I’m blogging once or twice a week rather than once or twice a day.

But I’m working on a few blog posts now and hope to release them as they’re finished. Getting started is always the hardest part, so I thought I’d start a few of them at once and let them sit in ecto until I’m ready to finish and publish them.

Let’s see how I do.

I should start out by saying that I’m not a big fan of television. It is the pacifier of the masses. Got a bunch of people liable to complain about a long wait? Put on a TV with something mildly entertaining on it and they’ll sit quietly, hypnotized by the images on the screen. Even if the sound is off! That’s why we see televisions in so many places we’re required to wait, from airport gate areas to doctors’ waiting rooms to restaurants.

My Relationship with the Boob Tube

Keep in mind that I grew up with television. We had one in each bedroom and in the kitchen. We weren’t wealthy people — most of those televisions were black and white — but we were thoroughly hooked into TV. We watched the Today show every morning at breakfast before school and game shows at dinner. I clearly remember seeing first-run episodes of I Dream of Jeannie and Gilligan’s Island. (We weren’t allowed to watch Laugh In — that was for adults.) Every Saturday morning, we were glued to the family TV watching cartoons like Scooby Doo. I remember the birth of Sesame Street and other kids shows like Electric Company. I was introduced to Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood at a neighbor’s house.

I was fifteen when we moved from New Jersey to Long Island, NY, and I got my own room for the first time in my life. Although my sister got a TV almost right away, I didn’t. I got a stereo instead. I got tuned into rock — the real stuff that’s probably considered “classic” now. I clearly remember sitting in my bean bag chair — this was the 70s, you know — near my stereo reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy while a Connecticut-based rock station introduced me to Yes with a 45-minute commercial free segment of Yes music.

I didn’t need a television. With books and good music, I could cook up my own fantasy world right in my head.

I got my own television — a 12″ black and white — right after graduating from college and moving into my first apartment. I was 20.

I got my first color television — a 20-inch Sony — as a Christmas gift when I was in my 30s.

My husband and I now have a 36-inch JVC we bought about five years ago, just before flat screens caught on. At the time, it was the largest television you could buy that wasn’t a projection TV. We bought it to better see the letterbox movies we occasionally rented or watched on various movie channels.

To this day, I’d rather sit in a comfortable chair with a good book than watch the crap that’s on TV. Better yet, I’d rather go out and do something — fly, work in the garden, take a hike, ride a bike, go for a drive, or hang out with friends — than watch TV.

There are exceptions, of course. I really love Jon Stewart on The Daily Show: a dose of reality wrapped in a package of laughter. The Colbert Report is a bit over the top sometimes, but usually worth sitting through. Boston Legal is my favorite fictional show — outrageously funny while clearly making social statements about current events. Other than that, I like informative shows on the Discovery, Science, and History channels, as well as PBS. Shows that can teach me something interesting or make me think.

I watch all television via DVR. For those of you not familiar with the concept — my mom wasn’t — DVR stands for digital video recorder. (TiVo is a DVR device.) It’s build into our satellite TV box and makes it very easy to record the television shows you want to watch. Once recorded, the shows sit on a hard disk and can be easily accessed and watched any time you like — even if the DVR is recording something else. But best of all is the 30-second fast forward button, which makes it easy to skip the commercials.

My TV Problem

I do have a problem, however. If you put me in a room that has a television on and it’s within view, I will get sucked into it. It with grab and hold my attention, turning me into just another one of the TV watching zombies around me.

You know what I mean. You’ve been to restaurants or waiting areas where there’s a TV on. If you’re facing it, you’re watching it. It’s as simple as that.

How can you help it? All those pretty colors flashing about. News channel screen titles and scrolling news tickers grab your attention even with the sound off. You see the pictures, you read the text. Why are the police following that white Blazer? What’s with the yellow tape around that wooded area? Why are they taking that man away in handcuffs? Who’s the guy with [fill-in-the-blank famous celebrity]?

In my case, even if I don’t care about what’s on the screen, I’m still sucked into it. The only solution is to sit with my back to it. But then the person I’m with might be facing it and I can clearly see him or her being sucked in. This makes normal social interaction — like conversation — difficult. It’s as if your party of two or three has just been joined by an invited guest who is demanding the attention of the people in your party.

Think I’m kidding? Exaggerating? The next time you’re in a restaurant or airport gate lounge or other place with a TV on, watch the people around it. How many of them are staring at the image like zombies? How many of them are preferring the onscreen image to conversation with their companion(s)? I’m willing to bet it’s more than 50%.

The universal pacifier.

Enter TV-B-Gone®

I read about TV-B-Gone in Make magazine. It was presented there as a project, but for those of us not comfortable with a soldering iron and circuit board, it was also available for sale.

TV-B-Gone is a universal remote control with just one button: an On/Off button. With it, you can turn virtually any television off (or on).

According to Mitch Altman, inventor of TV-B-Gone:

You can use TV-B-Gone® to control access to television for philosophical or practical reasons, or simply to have fun!

Mr. Altman echos my sentiments about television on the Responsible TV Watching page of his Web site:

How much of the TV that you watch do you really like a lot? If you could choose whatever it is that you’d like to be doing right now, anything at all, what would it be? Was your answer, “Watch TV!”? Whatever your answer was, my wish for you is that you have time in your life to do it. Please make time in your life for what you really like. Better yet, please make time to do what you love. Wouldn’t that be great? Don’t know what you love? Try out a few things, see what happens.

Me, my life got so much better from watching TV less. As a result, I had enough time to invent TV-B-Gone®! My idea was to give others a similar chance – so I created a fun way to get the message out there that turning a TV on or off really is a choice. Anywhere, anytime. Please, go out there and choose.

If you do visit the Responsible TV Watching page, please be sure to check out the links at the bottom of the page. If you’re an avid TV watcher, they may open your eyes to many alternatives.

Anyway, when I read about TV-B-Gone, I had to have one. So I coughed up the $20 plus shipping and bought one.

It looks like the keychain you might have with your car. You know, the kind with buttons to lock and unlock the door and open the trunk. There’s just one button on it and, when you press it once, a flashing red light inside that lets you know its working. Pressing the button twice activates it in stealth mode so the red light doesn’t flash.

You use it by pointing it at the TV and pressing the button. The TV-B-Gone then takes up to 69 seconds to run through all the codes commonly used by television manufacturers to toggle the power. When it gets to the code that activates the TV you’re pointing to, the power goes off (if it was on) or on (if it was off). Pretty simple, no?

Of course, there are some limitations. It won’t work with every television. You have to be line-of-sight with the TV’s remote control receptor thingie. There’s a distance limitation; closer is better. But overall, it’s an effective device for playing practical jokes.

TV-B-Gone in Action!

I took my TV-B-Gone with me on my recent trip to Florida. I wanted to test it out in a variety of settings.

I had no success with the televisions in the gate waiting areas at Houston Airport (IAH). I think it’s because I was too far away. In today’s paranoid world, I didn’t want to be obvious because I didn’t want TSA to come down on me for using a suspicious device. (Perhaps I’m more paranoid than they are?)

I did manage to turn off the TV in the waiting area just before I boarded the plane. It was interesting to see the faces of the people who had been watching it. They went from blank stares to confused stares. Nobody said a word.

A few days later, while having lunch with my parents at a St. Augustine restaurant, I got real satisfaction. We were seated at the counter of the rather small restaurant. There were four — count ‘em! — televisions within sight of my seat. One was tuned to some sport channel that appeared to have some kind of log-cutting competition. Another was tuned to CNN. A third was tuned to something else — I couldn’t see it clearly because of the way my seat was angled. And the fourth, a small TV close to the first, was turned off.

I should mention here that no one was watching the two TVs closest to me (log-cutting and CNN). Well, no one other than us, trying to figure out why anyone would compete in a competition that used chainsaws to cut through logs.

I whipped out my TV-B-Gone. A moment later, CNN was turned off. I aimed it at the log-cutting competition. The TV next to it went on. It was apparently some kind of security monitor because it showed images from various locations around the restaurant. In trying again to turn off the log-cutting TV, I turned the security TV back off. That’s when I realized that I probably didn’t have a straight shot to the log-cutting TV.

We continued waiting for our lunch. They were taking their blessed time about it. In all fairness, they were kind of busy.

One of the guys who worked there noticed that the CNN TV was off. He picked up a remote and tried to turn it on. Wrong remote. He tried with another. The TV came back on.

I waited a few minutes and turned it off again.

We’d just gotten our food when the same guy came back and noticed the TV was off again. I clearly heard him say to himself, “What is it with this TV?” He went through the same sequence of trying to turn it on with the wrong remote and then turning it on with the right one. It was tough to keep a straight face. I was seated at the end of the counter and the guy was less than 4 feet from me.

I turned it off again just before we left.

Later, the same day, at Houston Airport, I happened to walk though an area of terminal E that used about 50 televisions to create a display of moving colored lights 15-20 feet over the walkway. How unbelievably wasteful! I activated my TV-B-Gone as I was walking and managed to shut off four of them at once. Later, when I had to walk though the same area because of a gate change, I killed another four on the other side.

Is This a Cruel Joke?

When I bragged in Twitter about turning off the 8 televisions at IAH, @Miraz sent me an @reply message:

Doesn’t turning off TVs annoy the folks watching them? I’d be pretty peeved.

Well, in the case of the 8 TVs with moving colors, I don’t think anyone missed them. They might still be off for all I know.

And my observation of the people in the gate area a few days before didn’t reveal any anger. I think it’s because they weren’t really watching what was on. They were looking at it. Sucked in because there was nothing more interesting (to them) to look at. Or because they have the same TV problem I have.

It’s actually interesting to watch the reactions. It proves, in a way, that they don’t need the television on in front of them. Maybe when the TV goes off, they’ll actually engage in conversation with the people they’re with. Wouldn’t that be special.

But I wouldn’t try my TV-B-Gone in a sports bar. You know the kind of place. They have a bunch of TVs showing whatever real sporting events are on. (I’m not talking about log-cutting here.) Guys are drinking beer and watching the game. They’re shouting at the TV about the plays and the calls. They’re absorbed in what’s going on in front of them.

Get caught turning off one of those TVs, and you’re likely to get a black eye.

And I wouldn’t turn off a TV displaying breaking news about something that really mattered. Or the TV in a doctor’s office if it were displaying content that was keeping kids quiet.

You have to be responsible with your practical jokes.

Related Post:

• [Mostly] Unmissed Words

After spending yesterday being lazy and eating too much, I was determined to make the most of today. So I made rough plans to go for a hike at Red Mountain and then visit my favorite Thai restaurant in Flagstaff. I’d bring Jack the Dog and my good camera. I’d take my time and have a good time.

And that’s exactly what I did.

On the Road

I had a nice leisurely breakfast and spent a few hours reading something I’d written a long time ago. Reading my old fiction is always a bit depressing. I put so much of my time into it and now I realize how much rewriting it would do before I could ever consider publishing it. Both the content and writing style are immature. I wonder how many other writers look back at their old, unpublished work and feel the same way.

By 9:30 AM, I was ready to hit the road. I packed an orange and a bottle of water in a canvas bag, grabbed my camera bag and jacket, and loaded it all into the truck. I put Jack in back — I refuse to get dog hair all over the cloth seats in the cab — and closed the cap on him. Then I headed out.

I stopped to visit Matt and Elizabeth on my way out. They live full-time on the other side of the mesa. In fact, they’re the only people who live full-time on the mesa at all. They were in the middle of cleaning out one of their sheds, getting it ready to turn into a greenhouse. We chatted for a while as Jack wandered around their yard. I remembered that I didn’t have a leash for Jack and asked Matt for a piece of rope. I left with a 6-foot piece of nylon rope that I fashioned into a leash. Although there wouldn’t be many people where I planned to hike, there’s always one in the crowd ready to complain if your dog is off-leash.

We descended down the mesa and through the flatlands below. At route 64, I turned right, heading toward the Grand Canyon. There weren’t many people on the road, which kind of surprised me. It was, after all, Saturday morning. What better time to visit the big ditch?

Planes of Fame

At Valle, a small town at the intersection of routes 64 and 180, I made a brief stop at the Planes of Fame Air Museum. This remarkable aviation museum, which is based at Valle Airport, has an amazing collection of planes and aviation memorabilia. It’s impossible to miss, since General MacArthur’s Constellation is parked right out front. Oddly enough, it gets few visitors, despite the fact that thousands of people drive past each day on their way to or from the Canyon. I highly recommend it; it’s worth the stop for anyone interested in aviation — especially military aviation. And it the name of the place sounds familiar, it’s because it’s associated with the larger Planes of Fame museum in Chino, CA.

I was stopping in to hand over some brochures for Flying M Air. The museum’s lobby walls are lined with brochure racks for things to see and do all over Arizona and I like to keep my brochures there. At the same time, I usually pick up a batch of the museum’s brochures and put them in the racks at Wickenburg Airport. (It’s the least I can do!)

I had a nice chat with the two women there. They still had some of the brochures I’d mailed to them about six months ago. I asked them to put the brochures away until September 1. I told them I was closing down for the summer and there was no sense getting phone calls when I wasn’t ready to fly. They were completely understanding.

Walking Inside a Mountain

On leaving Planes of Fame, I headed southeast on route 180 toward Flagstaff. I’d planned to hike at Red Mountain, the remains of an ancient volcano that had collapsed in on itself thousands of years ago.

We’d discovered Red Mountain years ago, in 2003. While at Flagstaff’s excellent visitor center, we’d stumbled upon a free publication called 99 Things to Do in Northern Arizona. Number 26 was “Walk Inside a Mountain”:

Located 32 miles north of Flagstaff on U.S. 180, Red Mountain is one of the most intriguing sites in the Flagstaff area. The mountain is a volcanic cinder cone that rises 1,000 feet above the surrounding landscape. It is part of the San Francisco Volcanic Fields, a belt of volcanoes stretching through Flagstaff and on to the canyon of the Little Colorado River.

The northeast flank of the volcano is deeply sculpted, with a natural amphitheater in the center….The 2.5 mile round-trip hike is well worth it because you actually get to see what a cinder hill looks like on the inside.

This was enough to pique our interest, so we tracked down the trailhead and paid it a visit with Jack the Dog and a picnic lunch. I remembered it as an interesting yet easy hike — a good destination for another hike with Jack.

Today, I skipped the lunch and just brought along my Nikon D80 with two extra lenses in the fanny-pack style camera bag I bought for such hikes. I let Jack out of the truck and hung his makeshift leash around my neck. Another couple started the hike right after we did, but I let them pass us when I stopped to take a rest.

The trail to Red Mountain is an easy gravel pathway, partially eroded but plenty wide in most spots. It winds through typically high desert vegetation: grasses and pinon and juniper pines. Plenty of sun and shade. The path climbs gradually almost its entire length, offering occasionally glimpses of the cinder cone at its end, as well as the San Francisco Peaks and Mount Kendricks, beyond it, to the east.

The trail follows a dry stream bed into a canyon between two steep slopes of dark gray volcanic gravel. These slopes have been here a long time, as evidenced by the huge ponderosa pines growing out of them. They also give the trail a sort of claustrophobic feeling, especially with all the shade from tall trees all around.

The trail ends abruptly at a six-foot tall stone dam completely filled in with silt. A slightly tilted ladder with handrails leans against it. As Jack and I arrived, a group of 5 people were just making their way down. We waited.

One of the people asked, “How are you going to get the dog up there?”

“Oh, he’ll climb it,” I assured them.

“He’ll climb the ladder?”

“Sure.”

By this time, they’d all come down. They stood a few feet away, giving us an audience. I climbed up the ladder and Jack followed me, placing each foot carefully on a step as he climbed.

“It’s a circus dog!” someone called out.

Beyond the dam, we were inside the mountain. It was very different from what lay outside. Inside were mostly red rock formations very similar in appearance to the “hoodoos” at Bryce Canyon National Park hundreds of miles to the north. There were trees and hills and black rock. The force of erosion was quite evident. Jack and I explored the west side of the mountain’s insides and found ourselves winding through a series of narrow slot canyons. Of course, I had my crazy fisheye lens with me. I took a few shots with it, including this shot with Jack the dog. You can’t imagine how much red dust I got on the seat of my pants sliding off this observation point.

Here’s another weird shot with that fisheye lens. For this photo, I lay my flannel shirt, which I’d shed during the hike, on the dusty ground under a small pinon pine tree, facing up. Using the self timer, I snapped the shutter, then moved away quickly so as not to be in the photo. I love taking weird photos like this.

We explored inside the mountain for about 30 minutes. We were the only ones there. I’d forgotten to bring water with me and I knew Jack was thirsty. On the north-facing rocks, there was snow and I led the way to the base of a particularly snowy area, hoping that the snow was melting before it evaporated into the dry desert air. We found a small puddle and Jack had a good drink.

I took a few more shots, experimenting with various lenses and exposures and focal lengths. What I saw through the lens didn’t do the actual scene justice. It was beautiful and surreal.

We headed back to the dam and ladder. A pair of hikers stopped to pet Jack. When we got to the ladder, he carefully made his way back down. I wished I’d gone first and had taken a movie of it with my phone. I don’t think too many people would believe it, especially if they saw the ladder.

One of my favorite photos of Jack the Dog was taken the first time we visited Red Mountain. In it, he’s running towards us on the trail, with the San Francisco Peaks in the background. I decided to reconstruct the photo. When I got to the right spot, I called Jack back to me and snapped this photo. It wasn’t as pretty a day, but I think it’s a better photo.

We reached the truck, where Jack and I had a drink of water. Then I closed him up in the back of the truck and headed out of the parking lot. It was about 1 PM.

I should mention here that I have a photo of Red Mountain taken from the air. You can see it in the post titled “The Winslow Loop.”

The Drive to Flag

I continued southeast on route 180 toward Flagstaff. There was one spot I wanted to visit along the way — the very picturesque Chapel of the Dove. But when I neared it, I saw that its tiny parking lot was full of cars. I figured they must be doing some kind of memorial service and I didn’t want to intrude. So I kept driving. I’ll stop there another day when there’s no one around.

I did stop alongside the road to take this photo for Miraz. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same spot a photo on one of her recent blog posts was taken. I’m off the ‘net right now, so I can’t check.

Along the way, Route 180 climbs to just over 8,000 feet above sea level. My redneck truck sure didn’t like the elevation. It drove terribly. Even cruise control couldn’t keep up the speed. I’m very glad my trip this summer won’t keep me in the mountains.

Thai Food and Errands

Boy, I sure wish I could remember the name of the Thai restaurant we’ve been eating at in Flagstaff when we’re there. It’s right downtown, across the street from Babbitt’s, with a connecting door to the Hotel Monte Vista. It has the best Pad Thai Noodles I’ve ever had and a really great “combination” soup with a clear broth, rice noodles, chicken, tofu, pork (?), and veggies.

That’s where I went for lunch. I parked the truck in front of the tattoo parlor on Route 66, tied one end of the makeshift leash to Jack’s collar, and walked the two blocks. I tied Jack to a signpost outside the door and went in. After washing my hands three times to get the dirt off them, I settled down for a nice lunch. I only finished half of what they put in front of me, so I took the rest to go. (I’m finishing up the soup now. Yum.)

Afterward, we walked over to the Flagstaff Visitor’s Center to drop off a bunch of Flying M Air brochures. The Visitor’s Center shares space with Amtrack in the original train station right downtown.

Back in the truck, we headed over to the HomeCo Ace Hardware on Butler Road. This is a great hardware store that I’ll take over Home Depot any day. (Having spent much of a summer in the Flagstaff Home Depot, I can assure you that I’m sick of it.) It’s a good-sized place with everything you need and enough floor staff to help you find whatever it is you’re looking for. The True Value Hardware Store in Williams is also very good, although not nearly as big.

Although I was tempted to hit the Barnes and Nobel Bookstore on Route 66, I talked myself out of it. Instead, we hopped right on I-40 and headed west.

I did make one more stop before returning to the mesa: Dairy Queen in downtown Williams. They make the best hot fudge sundae. Even a small one!

Why It Was a Great Day

Now this day may seem pretty ordinary to you. A bunch of errands, a hike, and lunch out. Big deal.

But I enjoyed the whole day immensely — perhaps more than I should have. And knowing that I enjoyed it so much made me enjoy it even more.

Perhaps one of the things that made it so enjoyable was my choice of listening material for the long drives. (I did, after all, drive well over 100 miles today.) I had my iPod plugged in via cassette tape adapter thingie and was listening to podcasts. I was alone, so I didn’t have to worry about missing what was being said because of conversation. The podcasts I listened to — Point of Inquiry — gave me something to really think about. I like getting thoughtful input.

Another thing that contributed to the good day might have been my complete lack of schedule. I had a list of things I wanted to do and plenty of time to do them all. I didn’t need to be someplace — or back at the mesa — at a specific time. So there was no stress, no rush. Very relaxing.

Now I’m back on the mesa, relaxing in our camping shed. Outside, the wind is absolutely howling — they forecast winds 25 to 35 mph with gust up to 50 mph. My windsock is stuck straight out as if starched. Occasionally, the building shakes. But its cosy and safe in here with music on the radio and sunlight coming in through the windows.

And I have leftover pad Thai noodles for dinner.

I spent the day at our place on Howard Mesa today. It was a lazy day. I read, ate (too much), napped, chatted on the phone, wrote and posted blog posts, and took a walk.

In the late afternoon, I noticed what I thought was a cow just outside the gate, alongside the road. Howard Mesa is open range land and the only way you can keep cows off your property is to fence them out. We’re one of only two lots on top of the mesa that’s completely fenced in. We did it primarily to keep the horses in, since open range cattle rarely come up here. But my friends had their yard destroyed by cattle one day, so I’m glad our place is fenced in — even though there isn’t much here for them to destroy. (Who wants cow poop all over the place anyway?)

I walked down to the road with Jack the Dog to check out the cow. And that’s when I realized it wasn’t a cow. It was a bull. How could I tell? Balls instead of udders.

It didn’t have any horns, so I think it may have been young. Of course, the horns could have been cut off. I think ranchers do that sometimes. It was very interested in us, but I kept my distance. I’ve been to rodeos and I’ve seen cowboys and rodeo clowns chased. I didn’t want to be a rodeo clown.

I took some pictures with my phone and sent them to TwitPic and my TumbleLog. But this photo, taken with my CoolPix, is much better, especially after a trip though Photoshop Elements for exposure correction and cropping.

Later, I went for a walk, partially to walk off all the food I’d eaten. I find that I eat a lot when I’m up here — probably because there isn’t much else to do for distraction and I always bring along food I really like. Jack and I hit the road and took a right. I was hoping to see some other property owners, but I knew how unlikely that would be. There aren’t many places with less going on. I did see a truck drive by earlier today, but I don’t know where it went. I didn’t see it come back. I thought that there was a slight chance that I’d see where it went and possibly meet the people that were in it.

I didn’t. I didn’t see anyone. But what I did see was some neat textured dirt alongside the road. The ground gets like this in the spring, after numerous snowfalls and freezes have melted away. This stretches go on forever up here, with few tire tracks or animal tracks to disturb them. I like textures, so I took the picture.

I figure I walked about a mile round trip without seeing a soul. Even the bull was gone. It was so quiet, my ears hummed. All I could hear was the sound of the breeze in the pinon and juniper trees around me.

When I got back to the shed, I paused long enough to take a photo of Mount Kendricks (left) and the San Francisco Peaks (right) in the distance. The zoom on my CoolPix shortened up the distances — the snow-capped peaks are at least 50 miles from here but, as you can see, are clearly visible.

The sun’s getting low now and will set within the next 30 minutes or so. I’m looking forward to getting some shots of the moonrise. There are wisps of cirrus clouds in the sky, but I don’t think they’ll spoil my view. We’ll see.

Our little off-the-grid vacation place has solar power. It’s an extremely simple system that consists of two 120-watt (I think) solar panels mounted on the roof and four deep cycle batteries in a little cabinet. The panels are attached to the batteries with a charger. Whenever there’s sun — which is just about every day in Arizona — the solar panels charge the batteries. All we do to maintain them is make sure there’s enough distilled water in the battery cells.

The building has both AC and DC power. That’s a weird thing that we decided on when we first set up the place. It’s a very small place with just one room, a loft, and a bathroom alcove. There are very few electrical appliances, and they’re split between AC and DC. On the AC side is an iHome clock radio (the kind you can put an iPod in), a 700-watt microwave, and a 600-watt single cup coffee maker. There are also outlets that can power a small ShopVac or laptop. Everything else is powered by DC power: 9 small light fixtures, the water pump, and a ceiling fan. (Do you know how hard it was to find a DC ceiling fan?) There are round DC power outlets everywhere there’s a standard AC power outlet. The fridge, stove, water heater, and furnace are all propane gas.

Theoretically, we can run the whole place on DC power with gas. On very short stays, we don’t even bother with the fridge. But since the batteries are hooked up to a 2000-watt AC inverter, we usually turn on the inverter so we can use those AC appliances and outlets when we want to. We have a little meter that plugs into a DC outlet to monitor the amount of juice in the batteries. At night, the power level gets low, but never too low to run lights or watch a movie on a laptop with power connected. And, in the morning, even before dawn, there’s always enough power to run my coffee maker.

It’s a great system. It cost about $2K for Mike to design and install and it meets all of our limited needs. I’m certain that if we built a house up here with more conveniences, a system just three or four times the size — perhaps supplemented with a small wind generator — would easily meet those needs. After all, it’s cool enough up here that air conditioning is not required in the summer — especially if the house had an energy efficient design that kept the hot air out. And if the sun isn’t shining, the wind is probably blowing.

Today, while relaxing with a book, the radio suddenly died. I checked the little DC meter and saw that we had plenty of juice — 15.4 volts, in fact. That’s the highest I’ve ever seen it. I went out to check the inverter and found lights blinking on it. Consulting the manual revealed that we had too much power for the inverter to use. The system is designed to shut down when available power exceeds 15 volts.

Oddly enough, to get the AC power to work, I had to come inside and turn on a bunch of lights and the ceiling fan and run the pump for a while. In other words, I had to throw away excess power. Once I got stored power down to 14.8 volts, I went outside and turned the inverter back on. Everything worked fine.

Keep in mind that this is a very small system and there’s no tracking on those solar panels. The panels are fixed to the roof, pointing southwest. (Imagine how much power we’d pull in if the panels were set up to track the sun?) It was about 2:30 PM when the problem occurred; it’s now almost two hours later and the sun is lower, so I don’t think the problem will reoccur.

My point is this: Arizona is a perfect environment for solar power, especially for small to moderate use. There’s no reason why solar can’t be set up to at least supplement power coming into an on-the-grid home. And for an off-the-grid home with modest needs, it seems to be a perfect solution.

So why aren’t more homes built with solar as part of the standard builder package?

About two weeks ago, I went on a little shopping spree at Best Buy. One of the things I walked away with was a Nikon CoolPix S550 compact digital camera. I needed it (yes, really) to replace the 2-1/2 year old Canon PowerShot I kept in my purse. The PowerShot had become unreliable (to say the least) and, although it has several features I really like, it had to go.

Yesterday, while weeding through the stack of paperwork that came with the CoolPix — including both a full-length manual and Quick Start guide in Spanish — I stumbled across the registration form. “Return this card to register your purchase and enter our $100,000 Give Away VI,” the yellow folded sheet proclaimed. So this morning, as I sipped my first cup of coffee, I began to fill out the form.

Where they get the idea of calling this a “card” is beyond me. It’s a sizable sheet of paper, folded in thirds, with registration form fields on one full side and a third of the other. There are 30 questions.

I began filling out the form with basic information like my name, address, and e-mail address. They’d need this information, I reasoned, to contact prize winners. I also provided basic product information, such as the date of purchase, model purchased, serial number, and place of purchase. Then I answered questions, via check boxes, about the features that influenced my purchase decision and the other similar products that I owned or planned to buy. This is all basic market research stuff.

Next they asked about my skill level as a photographer (I checked “advanced amateur”) and computer skills (”advanced”). But I paused when I reached question 15: “Would you be interested in a digital camera course?” I would, but I didn’t want Nikon trying to sell me one via annoying e-mails or mailings. Still, I checked Yes.

More marketing questions followed. Is the camera for business or personal use? What business am I in? What kind of computer do I use? What other brands did I consider?

Then came the big departure from questions about the camera. The questions started getting personal. How many people in my household? Ages? Genders? What is my occupation? My husband’s? What’s our household income? What level of education did I complete? What credit cards do I use? Do I own or rent my home? How many magazines do I subscribe to or buy at newsstands each month?

Finally, the list of things we might do — 64 of them! — with check boxes. You know the options: Shop by catalog/mail, donate to charitable causes, have a dog, have a cat, own a CD-ROM drive, tennis, sailing, power boating, foreign travel. The list goes on and on. This is basically a check list so they know who they can sell your information to.

And that’s what these registration forms are all about — a way to get you to voluntarily provide personal information so they can sell it to others, who will then bother you by stuffing your mailbox with dead trees (as Miraz would say) or filling your e-mail box with special offers and links to their Web sites.

To confirm this, there’s some fine print at the very bottom of the form. It looks like it’s in about 6-point type; I needed my cheaters to read it:

Thanks for taking the time to fill out this questionnaire. Your answers will be used for market research studies and reports. They will also allow you to receive important mailings and special offers from a number of fine companies whose products and services relate directly to the specific interests, hobbies, and other information indicated above. Through this selective program, you will be able to obtain more information about activities in which you are involved and less about those in which you are not. Please check here if, for some reason, you would prefer not to participate in this opportunity.

If I’d finished the questionnaire — which I did not — I’d check this “opt out” box. But would that really protect my information?

So I decided to save the 41¢ postage — you didn’t think they’d cover that cost, did you? — and just shred the damn questionnaire.

I like to keep a camera in my purse. You never know when a photo opportunity might crop up. While some people would be perfectly satisfied using the camera on their phone, I’m a bit picky. So when my 7.1 megapixel Canon PowerShot became unreliable earlier this month, I replaced it with a 10 megapixel Nikon CoolPix.

[A side note here: I cannot believe how advanced and inexpensive digital cameras have become. This was the least expensive of all the digital cameras I've purchased, yet it has more capabilities than all of them except my Nikon D80 digital SLR. And the pictures speak for themselves.]

I took the camera along on my afternoon chores at the horse corral and snapped a few photos of what’s currently in bloom around my yard. It’s been warm out during the day — in the 80s — and although there was some rain to the north of Wickenburg today, it remains dry here. Still, there are more wildflowers this year than I’ve seen in a few years.

A close-up shot of some desert marigolds, including a flower bud. Unfortunately, the guy who takes care of our yard pulls these out as weeds.

Globe mallow. (Remember, I’m still playing with my camera, so I’m experimenting a bit more than usual.)

Brittlebush. These took seed in our yard, grew into bushes, and flower every year.

I have too much stuff. That’s not under question. But I’ve learned that one of the problems with having too much stuff — besides finding places to store it all — is keeping it all working and in good repair.

Vehicular Responsibilities

Take, for example, my two motorcycles. Bought brand new in 1992 and 1996, I rarely ride them. I simply don’t have the time. So they sit in storage, gathering dust while the gasoline in their tanks turns to varnish and their batteries die. I’ve tried battery tenders and gasoline stabilizers, but every time I want to take one of them out, I have a heck of a time getting it started. The solution, of course, is to sell at least one of them and I’ve made the decision to do just that. But I still have to get it running and bring it over to the motorcycle guy who said he’d sell it for me.

My new old redneck truck — nicknamed the “Brokeback Mountain Truck” because of the way its 14-year-old pearlized red paint looks pink in strong sunlight — required a bunch of small repairs to get it up to operating standards for the long trip it’ll take me on in May. That bunch of repairs, which I thought would cost about $500 to $700 cost a whopping $1,500. Ouch! The mechanic, who I trust, says it’ll run a good, long time. It better. It’s my first Ford. Some of us know what F-O-R-D stands for. (If you don’t check the title for this post.)

To be fair, we drove it this weekend to Howard Mesa and Flagstaff (so far) and it’s running okay. Sure, its 8-cylinder engine is a dog and the Ford steering is about as loose as you can get, but get it up to highway speed and turn on the cruise control and everything is satisfactory. I’ll have accurate fuel burn numbers when I fill up in Chino Valley on our way home.

Mummies in the Attic

But the ongoing source of our repair efforts is our little vacation cabin. Its exterior was built by people who know how to use the necessary tools and materials and they did a reasonably good job. The place is sturdy, anyway. But after adding plumbing, electrical, fixtures, appliances, and furniture to make it a home way from home, the problems began.

First it was the mice, who seemed to invade the premises every time we left. That means a thorough cleaning and disinfecting each time we arrived. I don’t know about you, but after a 3-1/2 hour drive, the last thing in the world I want to do is spend four hours vacuuming and washing floors and countertops, and furniture. The mouse moved into the walls, so we’d often hear them scurrying around at night. It took a long time to find and seal up all the holes where they were coming in. When I got sick of dealing with the humane mouse traps, I resorted to rat poison. The worst night we ever at the place was the night after Mike threw rat poison into the roof rafters and sealed up the holes on either end with steel wool. All night long, the doomed rodents were running back and forth over the ceiling.

And yes, there are now mouse bodies in our ceiling. But thanks to the dry Arizona air, they mummify quickly.

Split Pipes

We were still battling the mouse problem when the plumbing problem began. We’d used PVC piping which, due to our low water usage needs, should have been fine. Trouble is, if you don’t drain the pipes properly, the water in them freezes up in the winter. That causes the pipes to expand until they break.

Our first Christmas at the cabin gave us our first plumbing repair job. We brought everything inside, turned on the water, and turn on the pump. Within seconds, water was gushing out of the wall.

Mike spent most of the next day repairing the broken pipe. When he was done and everything was closed back up, we turned on the pump again. Another pipe was broken. He fixed that one the next day, on Christmas Eve. So yes, on that trip, we didn’t have running water for more than 48 hours.

Despite our best efforts to drain the pipes on departure, this happened again, to a lesser extent, on our next visit. Mike got very good at repairing pipes.

The following Christmas, Mike came prepared. He replaced all the PVC pipes with copper. Unfortunately, there had been water in the toilet valve and that had split. (We had installed an RV toilet to conserve water.) So we had to manually flush with a bucket of water.

On our most recent trip, we discovered a crack in the pump. We bought a replacement and hope to repair the old one as a spare. But when he went to fix the toilet — after replacing the pump — he discovered that the replacement part he’d bought for that didn’t have the piece he needed. So we continue to bucket flush.

Other Problems

We’ve had other problems with the place over the years. There was the mouse nest in the furnace that prevented it from staying lighted until the nest was removed. Before fixing that, the cabin actually got down to the low 40s at night.

And then there was the poorly set windows and doors. I spent a whole day with a caulk gun filling cracks with clear caulk to stop the cold wind from finding its way into the building.

Otherwise, everything has been fine. But now I know why Mike doesn’t like going up to the vacation cabin. Every time we go, there’s something that needs to be fixed.

At Home

Our house is just over 10 years old now, at that age when little things start needing attention.

Original light bulbs all over the house have been dying lately. The guy who built our house probably had stock in the local utility company. Every single light fixture in the house has either 3 or 4 bulbs in it. The master bathroom, which has a long countertop with two sinks and a vanity, is lighted by a row of 16 bulbs. When we moved in, there was a 150-watt bulb in each one. That’s 2400 watts of lighting with the flick of one switch. We replaced all those bulbs with 40s and put a dimmer switch on it. I don’t need to get a tan in my own bathroom.

We’ve had a few minor leaks in the past few years. We’ve needed some paint touchups inside and out. A few of the ceramic tiles between the kitchen and front door are cracking but not loosening up. The appliances are still all working fine, although I know that when they start dying, I’ll replace them with better rated equipment and leave the foo-foo brand names for another sucker. (I’ll take my old Kenmore dishwasher over the JennAire I have now any day.)

So I’m waiting patiently. Something else will break shortly — I can feel it in my bones — and I need to be ready to take care of the repair.

I’ve been blogging pretty regularly since 2003, writing about the things that go on in my life, the things I’m thinking, the flights I’ve been making. I’ve been sharing photos and videos and stories. All the time I do this, I don’t really think about the people who read what I write. They’re a nameless, faceless group, scattered all over the globe.

At least they were. Lately, some of their faces have been coming into full focus. How? I’m meeting them in person.

I met three of them up here in Alaska over the past two days: Keith, Deb, and Marcus. Keith didn’t say much about the blog, but Deb and I discussed some of the things I’ve written in a bit more detail than I’d expect. And Marcus laughed with me about misused apostrophes, including the one on a local restaurant’s take-out menu, which lists Pizza’s. (You may recall that I linked to Apostrophe Atrophy on March 15.)

This is odd. I’m over 2,500 miles from home and meeting people who already know me more than I expect. And they still want to talk to me, if you can believe that!

Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to say hello to the blog readers I haven’t met yet in person. Maybe I’ll meet some of you one day, too.

Last June, Mike and I went to Alaska for vacation. Our travel plans, which were made by a real travel agent, were completely screwed up, as I detailed in “Trouble on the Tundra” in this blog.

While I think the travel agent was to blame for our screwed up hotel arrangements on that trip, I can’t blame her for airline delays. I blame the airline — Alaska Airlines — for that. Unfortunately, I had to fly with the same airline again yesterday. Fortunately, when they get it right, they do a good job. And they got it right yesterday.

But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit.

I want to fly in Alaska this summer. Last week, I lined up a job interview with a company based in Girdwood, AK, which is just south of Anchorage. Here’s a quick summary of yesterday’s flight to Alaska from Phoenix.

Before the Crack of Dawn

My flight was scheduled to leave Phoenix at 6 AM, so I was up and getting ready to go at 3 AM. I was out the door in the cool, predawn morning at 3:30 and, after a quick stop for gas in my Honda, was on the road heading out of Wickenburg at 3:45 AM.

The thought of this would send many late risers into cardiac arrest. But I’m an early riser and typically start my day around 5 AM anyway. Getting up two hours earlier wasn’t a big deal, although it did require the use of an alarm clock. Well, that’s not really true, because I woke up about 5 minutes before the alarm would have buzzed and turned it off before it woke Mike.

The drive down to Phoenix was a pleasure. There were few cars on the road on Grand Avenue and Carefree Highway. I set my cruise control at a reasonable speed — that’s one that was unlikely to get me jail time — and zipped on down the road. I had my iPod connected, and listened to last week’s episode of “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me” from NPR. The top was up because it was quite cool outside.

Traffic on I-17 was light, which you’d expect at 4:30 in the morning. But what you might not expect was getting an excellent parking spot in the West Long Term Economy lot at Sky Harbor. This is the long-term parking lot on the west side of the airport, adjacent to Terminal 2. I got a parking spot about 100 feet from the crosswalk to the terminal, so I was able to park, get my luggage, and simply walk to the terminal where my plane would depart. No need to take a shuttle bus or to remember if I needed the “Roadrunner” or “Gecko” or whatever shuttle on the way home. This probably saved me about 20 minutes of travel time.

I already had my boarding pass printed out, thanks to the miracle of the Internet. And I only had one piece of luggage, which, although not exactly small, would easily fit in the overhead bin of most airliners. So I didn’t have to wait on line at the counter. That saved me another 20 minutes.

A Brief Security-Related Rant

I did, however, have wait on line at security. And although I don’t usually pull out my liquids and gels and stick them in a plastic bag for the world to see, I had a feeling that that morning I might get grief about it. So I grabbed one of their baggies and dumped my entire toiletries bag into it. I’ll use the baggie from now on.

For the record, I have real gripe with this whole liquids and gels thing. First of all, if you don’t pull them out of the bag, they usually don’t bother you about it. In fact, I’ve never been bothered about it. That makes me wonder if (1) they can see it at all and (2) if they really care. Rules like 3-3-1 (or whatever bullshit name they’ve applied to this particular invasion of privacy) are not designed to keep us safe. They’re designed to inconvenience us just enough to make us think they’re keeping us safe. If I’ve taken liquids and gels through in my luggage a dozen times without getting searched, how many others have? Doesn’t their equipment sense the naughty stuff even if it’s inside the luggage? (Jeez, I hope so!) And just because my plastic baggy clearly displays a tube of Neutrogena face cream, does that mean there’s Neutrogena face cream in it? Come on, TSA! Do you think we’re all a bunch of morons? And how about it if you stop playing head games with us and just do a good job getting us through security?

But in some cases, it’s best to just go with the flow. So I used a baggie and put it in a bin with my shoes, cell phone, purse, loose change, jacket, scarf, and boarding pass. The other bin was for my computer, which I also had to pull out, completely remove from its protective case, and lay in a separate bin with nothing above or below it. (Again, who’s to say that there’s really a computer in there if TSA’s equipment can’t see that it’s a computer with its expensive x-ray equipment? Why does it have to be out of the case? Are they trying to profile us based on our choice of laptop make and model?)

Of course, sending the boarding pass through in a bin was a bad idea. Even though they never said to keep it in my possession as I went through the metal detector, I had to retrieve it to show the metal detector guy before he’d let anyone else through. This held up the line. But I wasn’t the only one who made this error. The guy in front of me did the same thing — but it was too late to retrieve my boarding pass at that point because he’d held up the line and my stuff had already gone through the x-ray machine.

The only good thing about all this security is that if your valuables go through the x-ray machine before you get through the metal detector, there’s a reduced chance of your valuables being stolen before you can get to them. In the “old days,” I never let my things go down the belt unless I knew I’d beat them to the other side of the x-ray machine.

Ah, the good old days. The memory of going through security fully dressed, without half unpacking my luggage, is sweet indeed.

The Flight

Although Terminal 2 is not one of the nicest at Sky Harbor, they’d fixed it up quite a bit since my last pass through there a few months ago. There was a nice coffee stand where I bought a latte, a muffin, and a piece of pumpkin pound cake for the flight.

When I got to the gate, they were boarding. I stopped long enough to pull my iPod, headphones, and laptop out of my luggage and put my down jacket (borrowed from Mike) in. A short while later, I was seated in 7F with the wheelie bag in the bin over my head and a tiny airplane pillow behind my lower back, belted in and sipping latte.

The plane left on time.

We took off to the east, then banked left to the north. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was bright enough to see the Salt River, Chandler and Falcon Field Airports, and Fountain Hills. Our flight path took us up the west side of the Verde River, past Bartlett and Horseshoe Lakes (which both appeared full), Sedona, and Flagstaff. We probably flew over the top of Howard Mesa, although it could have been on the other side of the plane.

Just before we reached the Grand Canyon, the sun appeared as a bright orange dash of light at the horizon. It grew slowly out of the east, rising almost imperceptibly until it was an orange ball. As it brightened, it cast long shadows over the rugged terrain.

That’s when I started noticing the thin, long clouds at right about our altitude. It took me a moment to realize they were contrails from other jets criss-crossing the sky. We flew parallel to one for a while, cutting across another. Although I’ve seen many contrails from the ground — we all have! — this is the first time I’d ever noticed them from the air. It was very cool.

We flew over the Little Colorado River and Colorado River, now heading north-northwest over terrain that wasn’t as familiar to me. It clouded up, obscuring my view for a while. Later, the clouds broke up again and I could see more unfamiliar ground. Much later, I saw the Columbia River, where it makes its big turn in western Washington state. Then more clouds as we turned to the west and began our descent. It wasn’t until we were below the clouds, making our final approach to Seattle Tacoma Airport that I realized how windy it was. Large flags blew straight out. I got a postcard-view of downtown Seattle before we touched down on the wet runway of the airport.

Once in the terminal, I had to find my gate for the next flight. I was in Terminal N, which appeared to be an island terminal in the middle of the ramp, and had to get to Terminal C. I asked an airport employee and was directed to an underground train system. One stop and I was at my terminal, with 40 minutes to kill before boarding my next flight.

I went for a short walk. The terminal was quite nice, with a big open food court area and lots of nice shopping. (I tell you, there’s better dining and shopping at many airport terminals than I can find in my own town.) I wanted to get a shoe shine, but the shoe shine girl was at her alternate location in Terminal D (according to the guys in the Bose booth beside her shoe shine chairs.) So I bought some sushi and carrot sticks to go at little restaurant not far from my gate.

I spent a short time waiting in the gate area. Planes took off down the runway right outside the window. A few very small clouds floated up the runway about 100 feet off the ground. Clouds were broken in layers around us, with blue sky and sunshine making occasional appearances. Although the weather wasn’t great, it was a pretty day.

Before long, I was on my Seattle to Anchorage plane, seated in 16F. (I’m a window seat person, in case you haven’t noticed.) There was an empty seat between me and the man on the aisle and, as the incoming crowd thinned out, we marveled at our luck on the otherwise full flight. But just before closing the doors, they let two more passengers on board: a heavyset man and his much thinner wife. We got the wife.

She was a very pleasant person, but a talker. (Yeah, I know; I’m a talker, too. But I know how to shut it off. She didn’t.) She lived in Fairbanks and spent her summers in a motorhome in Yuma, AZ where her sister lived. (I can tell you more about her entire life, including her kids and grandkids, but I’ll spare you.) They were going back to Fairbanks to surprise a friend of theirs for her birthday. In a month or two, they’d drive back to Fairbanks from Yuma in their motorhome.

It was nice chatting with an Alaskan about Alaska, although I can’t seem to come up with many points worth sharing. We did talk a bit about fishing and about how the tour companies tend to do as little as possible to satisfy the tourists, who generally have no clue what they’re missing. We also talked about cruise ship passengers being more interested in shopping than actually seeing and learning about the port cities they stop at.

The whole time we flew — and it was a 3-1/2 hour flight — it was cloudy beneath us. Until we got about 45 minutes outside of Anchorage. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t looking down at clouds. I was looking down at snow covered mountains.

Of course, I’d had much the same view on our flight to Anchorage in June. This time, however, the air seemed cleaner and crisper and the view seemed more spectacular. The mountains came right down to the ocean, with snow almost all the way to the bottom. There was no beach, no rocky shoreline for a stroll. Just ocean and then those tall peaks.

I don’t know how tall those mountains were, but I’m sure most were at least 5,000 feet. They were rugged and rocky and looked as if they were made of granite. There were pine trees along the lower elevations of many of them. And, looking to the east, that’s all I could see: rocky, snow-covered mountains.

The woman beside me took an interest in the view and leaned over for a better look. She pointed out a few glaciers — there were dozens of them! — and places where she and her husband went fishing from their boat, which they keep in Valdez. Then the clouds moved in again, hiding the ground from view. I looked out on the horizon and saw the top of Denali (Mount McKinley), way off in the distance.

Then we descended through the clouds, The next time I saw the ground, we were approaching Anchorage and I could see the airport from our downwind leg. We came in from the north, over the mud flats, which were littered with large blocks of ice that hadn’t been there in June. I reminded myself that it was still winter, a fact that was confirmed when I felt the cool breeze on the jetway as I walked out into the terminal.

Only the day before, I’d been wearing a t-shirt as I walked around Las Vegas.

The End of a Smooth Flight

I was in a rental car, on my way to Girdwood, within 30 minutes of landing at Anchorage. The only reason it took me that long was (1) I stopped to look at the historic photos of the airport on the way to the Rental Car counter and (2) I couldn’t remember which rental car company I used, so I had to ask at five of the eight rental car desks before I found my reservation. (I never claimed to have all the answers. And besides, isn’t it impossible for everything to be perfect on a trip?)

There’s a lot to be said about packing light. Because I only had one piece of luggage and because that piece of luggage was small enough to carry on board with me, I saved a ton of time by not having to check it and then retrieve it. (I also didn’t have to worry about the airline losing it.) Because the luggage had wheels, transporting it was easy. I think that my choice of luggage and the way I packed is a big part of what made my trip so smooth.

I’m just hoping my return trip will go as smoothly.

Composed at a B&B in Girdwood, AK with ecto.

Just a quick note to let regular readers know that I’m absolutely slammed with travel stuff right now. Mike and I took his mom on an overnight trip to Las Vegas. We just got back. Tomorrow I board a 6 AM flight to Anchorage, AK for a pilot job interview. I’ll be up there until Friday morning, when I return home.

If I get internet access while I’m away, look for a blog post on Wednesday. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait until my return.

Sorry!

And I managed to get some great video landing at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas (LAS) yesterday. Hope to get a bit of that on Viddler soon.

Yesterday was one of those days when you’re just so darn busy doing things that time goes by in a blur, ending in exhaustion and a good night’s sleep.

I woke as usual before 6 AM. I made coffee for me and a scrambled egg for Alex the Bird. Then I settled down at the kitchen table with a laptop to write up my “Feels So Good” blog entry. Mike and Jack the dog came down and had breakfast. Later, I cleaned the remains of the previous day from Alex’s cage, set him up with food and water for the day, and locked him in.

A typical morning.

Taking Out the Tires

Mike had gotten new tires for his new used car. He bought the car a month or so ago and it came with fancy rims and low-profile tires. Those rims and tires really aren’t practical for life on the edge of nowhere, especially when the last mile of road to the house is unpaved. So he bought new rims and tires on eBay. They’d arrived the day before and he had a Saturday morning appointment to get them put on his car. Since he couldn’t take them in his car, I had to drive them over to Big O in his pickup. We did that at about 8:30 AM.

It was a beautiful morning. It had rained steadily most of the day before, so everything was wet. The sky was mostly clear and the sun shined down on all the water droplets hanging from the trees, making everything sparkle. But what was even more interesting was that as the sun heated the moist ground, it was creating thin trails of mist in the washes and wispy low clouds in the low mountains around town. Wow.

Horseback Riding

I dropped the tires off and took the truck back home. My friend Janet called along the way. She’s visiting the area from Colorado, where she now lives. She used to live in Wickenburg and then in Congress, which is one town north of Wickenburg, but like so many of our friends, she moved away in search of a place better matched to her lifestyle. She’s an artist who paints original artwork on turkey feathers. While that might sound tacky, it really isn’t. You can see some of her work on her Web site and in a number of galleries and gift shops throughout the southwest.

Janet has three horses. Although they were in Wickenburg for a few weeks, her husband took them home when he returned a week or so ago. Janet’s here for some more business and to help out a friend before she heads home. She’s got one of their two dogs with them, Maggie, a part hound dog who looks a lot like the dog from The Simpson’s, but brownish red. Janet and I planned to go horseback riding the day before, but weather had cancelled that plan. With nothing else scheduled that morning, we figured we’d try again.

I’d been home less than a half hour when she showed up with Maggie. I showed her my baby chicks — she raises turkeys — and we went down to fetch the horses. We had them both saddled up and ready to go a while later. She’d be riding Jake, Mike’s horse. I’d be riding Cherokee.

By this time, we’d attracted the attention of our neighbor’s dogs, Trixie and the 6-month-old Charlotte. Charlotte had gone for her first ever ride with us about two weeks before and other than getting lost once for about 10 minutes, she did fine. Trixie always follows us. Jack, of course, lives to go out on the trail. And we had Maggie, too. So that was four dogs with two horseback riders.

The hills around our home were green with new grass and really pretty. We don’t get much rain in the desert so we don’t have much green anything. When it does rain, the grass grows quickly, seizing life to produce seed for the next generation in record time. The green stuff out there was mostly about four inches long and looked like a carpet. It would be nice to ride through all that green.

We headed out up the hill to our house and down the trail beside my neighbor’s property into the state land. Cherokee started acting up right away and we had to do a little rodeo routine before he agreed to follow Jake down the trail. Cherokee is lazy and, for some reason, he thinks he can get away with crap like that with me. He tries half heartedly to throw me off but I hang on, give him a good slap on the side of his neck, and we get back to the business at hand. Cherokee is not the kind of horse you put a “dude” on.

We took a trail that headed out toward the golf course at Rancho de los Caballeros, then way back out into the desert. The dogs ran around, chasing rabbits and each other, but always coming back within sight within a few minutes. Janet and I chatted about various things, moving along at a moderate pace along the trails. Janet was leading and each time she came to an intersection, I’d call out “left” or “right” to guide us along the way.

We were at the base of the trail that climbed to the top of a mountain ridge — we call it the “Ridge Trail” — when we realized that Maggie was missing. Janet said she often catches the scent of another animal and takes off after it but she’s usually back within fifteen minutes or so. We climbed the trail and stopped at the top to admire the view (which is spectacular), give the horses a rest and a chance to nibble at the grass, and do a dog head count. Maggie was still missing.

Janet was sure she’d catch up to us, so after about ten minutes, we continued on our way. We took a trail down the back side of the ridge that wound through a wide canyon — we call that one “Deer Valley” because we often see deer there. That dumped us out at a big trail intersection and I chose another trail that would bring us home. Our total ride was only about 4 miles, but I thought that was enough for Charlotte.

Maggie was still missing.

Search for the Missing Dog

She was also missing when we got back to my house. By that time, Janet was worried. I told he we’d take the Jeep out to Los Caballeros, as close as we could get to the point we’d last seen Maggie. I gave her every indication of confidence that we’d find Maggie. I felt confident, but I don’t know why. There were thousands of acres of empty desert out there.

We unsaddled, brushed out the horses, and dropped them off in their lower corral. We watched them do some synchronized rolling in the sand, then walked back up to the house to check with Mike about Maggie. No, she hadn’t shown up. I called Los Cab and left a message at the wrangler’s office. We thought there was a possibility that Maggie might have hooked up with other horseback riders out there and followed them back to the ranch.

We climbed into the Jeep and headed out. The ranch was our first stop. Two people had just come in for a ride and were brushing off their mules. No, they hadn’t seen a dog out there. We headed out to the skeet shooting range, which is one of the points accessible by car that was close to the trail we’d been on. Not that close, obviously, but within a half mile. There was no one there, so I parked and we got out. We called and whistled.

Janet caught sight of two riders out in the distance. For some reason, they kept stopping on the trail. Janet thought that maybe Maggie was with them, but we couldn’t see that far (or low) and they were well out of earshot.

We got back into the Jeep and after a few wrong turns, made our way to a little junkyard I’ve seen from the air a few times. I’d actually ridden through it years ago on my first horse and I knew it was pretty darn close to the bottom of the Ridge Trail’s climb. I drove through it, as far as I could before the two-track road ended. Then we parked and got out. We climbed a nearby hill and saw the trail we’d been on right on the other side of a fence. The barbed wire was hanging low in one spot and I gingerly stepped over it to get a better view out toward the wash.

We called and whistled and called. At this point, I started realizing the futility of the situation. If the dog was out there and she heard us, our voices and whistles would be echoing off all the hills around her. How would she know which way to go?

I was on my cell phone, calling the local police to see if the dog catcher had picked up a dog when I caught sight of something moving in the distance. The color was right. It was Maggie, running toward us. I told Janet I saw her, then told the policeman who’d answered the phone why I’d called and that the dog had been found. By the time I hung up, Maggie was with us.

We walked back to the Jeep where I had a dog dish and some water. Maggie seemed glad to have it. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned that she’d been away from us for close to two hours. We loaded her into the Jeep and went home.

The Garage Project, Part I

Mike was already working on the project we were supposed to be doing that day: cleaning out half the garage and putting in shelves to neatly store our accumulated crap. (Who’s law is it that says your collection of junk will always expand to fill the available space to store it?) He was very surprised to see us return with Maggie. He stopped what he was doing — pulling junk out of the garage and piling it on the driveway — and kept us company while we ate lunch. Then Janet and Maggie left and we had no excuse not to get back to work.

Well, we actually did have an excuse. Mike had called the owner of a pickup truck for sale in town. The truck, a 1994 Ford with 4WD and an extended cab, was exactly what we wanted to get as a spare truck we can leave at Howard Mesa. The price was within range. Just as we’d pulled all our junk out of the garage, the owner called, ready to meet with us. So we climbed in Mike’s pickup and headed into town. We drove the truck, agreed that it needed a new transmission, and told the owner we’d have our mechanic call him later in the week. Then, after two quick stops at the local Alco store, we went home and got back to work.

Mike had the idea of setting up a camera to do a timelapse movie of our setup. This was a great idea and easy enough. I brought my MacBook Pro out, set up EvoCam software to take a shot every minute and turn it into a movie, and pointed the camera at the blank wall where the shelves would go. Then we got to work.

The shelves were an Ikea product with a typically cryptic name. We’d used them before, in our house in New Jersey, and Mike had bought some new pieces so we’d have enough to cover the wall. What we discovered is that Ikea doesn’t make these things as heavy-duty as they used to. The wood was thinner throughout. Even the bolts were smaller. But they were still sturdy, and went up quickly, despite interruptions by my neighbor’s kids and numerous dogs.

Here’s the video:

Day’s End

It was pretty much dark by the time we finished. Since the forecast didn’t call for any rain, we just left most everything outside, closed the garage door, and came in for supper.

Mike grilled up some elk hamburgers, which tasted excellent with American cheese on them. With that, we had the ratatouille he’d cooked up earlier in the day. We stowed the dishes in the dishwasher and headed upstairs.

I was dead asleep by 8 PM.

Last night, I had the privilege and pleasure to sit second row center at a Chuck Mangione concert. In Wickenburg.

Say what you will about Wickenburg’s lack of nearly everything — as I [too] often do — but it has two extraordinary things that make life here a bit more interesting. One of them is the Del E. Webb Center for the Performing Arts. And each year, the folks who manage the Webb Center do a damn good job at lining up entertainers to inject a little culture into this otherwise cultural black hole.

The annual lineup is always a mix of entertainers. There’s country music, jazz, dance, spoken word, and more. While most acts will appeal to adults — after all, more than half of Wickenburg’s winter population is over 55 — there are usually a handful appropriate for families. That’s great (if local families take the kids out) because it exposes them to quality entertainment with a higher cultural value than what they’re probably watching on television. What’s great about the Webb Center is that while adult ticket prices are in the $30 to $45 range, kids tickets are usually just $5.

Mike and I normally attend one or two performances at the Webb Center each season. In November, we saw “A Charlie Brown Christmas with the David Benoit Quartet.” Mr. Benoit and his companions played a combination of their own music, as well as classic Peanuts music by Vince Guaraldi. It was a great show and perfect for the upcoming Christmas season.

Last night’s performance by Chuck Mangione and his five-piece band was, by far, the most enjoyable performance I’ve attended at the Webb Center. The music was full of energy — my foot was tapping from the very first note to the last. Each member of the ensemble took turns entertaining us with solos while they played Mangione favorites like Bellavia, Main Squeeze, and Chase the Clouds Away, Children of Sanchez. They played for 90 minutes without interruption, left the stage, and returned to a standing ovation to play the classic jazz hit, Feels So Good. Mr. Mangione quipped that the song had put both his daughters through college.

After the show, most people left quickly, as they usually do at the Webb Center. But those of us who remained behind got the opportunity to meet Mr. Mangione in person. There was quite a crowd for him, which was great to see. I was one of the last to step up. I’d bought a CD at the end of the show (as I usually do) and Mr. Mangione autographed it for me while I thanked him for coming to Wickenburg.

Last night’s concert was sold out, which is always great to see. There were people in the audience who had come from as far away as Connecticut and Tennessee just to see the show. It’s somewhat embarrassing when “big name” musicians like David Benoit or R. Carlos Nakai and William Eaton (who came last year) come to Wickenburg and play to a half- or three-quarters-full house. After all, the Webb Center only has 600 seats — you’d think we’d be able to get 600 people to come to a live performance that didn’t require a lengthy drive down to Phoenix or Scottsdale. Unfortunately, not everyone in Wickenburg understands or appreciates the value of this great cultural facility. For those of us who do, it’s a special treat.

And in case you’re wondering what the extraordinary thing in Wickenburg is, it’s the Desert Caballeros Western Museum. Don’t let its appearance from the street fool you — it’s bigger and better than it looks. Next time you’re in Wickenburg, see for yourself.

Yesterday, for Valentines day, my husband treated me to an overnight trip to the Scottsdale Fairmont Princess. The Princess is a five-star resort in North Scottsdale with amenities that remind me why I work so damn hard sometimes.

It was great to get away from town — even for such a short time — to go to a place where “service” and “quality” are more than just words thrown around by people who’ve never experienced them. The Princess’s staff members go out of their way to provide excellent service and make you feel special from the moment you walk in the door. The bellman who escorted me to our room not only pulled my small wheelie bag for me, but pointed out the various restaurants, shops, and other points of interest along the way. In the room, he showed me how to work the thermostat, hung up my jacket before I could stop him, and even fetched ice for the ice bucket. That night, when we went down for dinner at our second choice restaurant, the hostess there tried again to get a table for us at our first choice. (No luck.) We wound up eating in the Princess’s low-end restaurant, which still offered better service, a more interesting menu, and better prepared food than any restaurant in Wickenburg. (I will admit that Rancho de los Caballeros has a better wine list.) Even room service this morning was a special treat: fresh fruit and plain yogurt for me and blueberry pancakes with fresh blueberries, strawberries, and whipped cream for Mike, all served up with today’s New York Times.

Ah, civilization. I guess I miss it more than I thought.

But the highlight of the trip for me came after Mike left to go to work. I made an appointment at the Willow Stream Spa, which is part of the Princess complex, for an aromatherapy facial.

While I’ll admit that I’ve experienced a true spa only five times in my life, this was, by far, the nicest. It featured wide open spaces, pleasant aromas, the sound of falling water almost everywhere, and friendly service. After checking in, I was escorted to the women’s side of the facility by a woman who played tour guide. She pointed out features that included a waterfall (where spa guests could enjoy the spray or high pressure of the falling water), hot and cold plunge pools, steam room, aromatherapy inhalation room, and Swiss shower with 12 shower heads. (We skipped the private rooftop pool — the resort seems to have a swimming pool everywhere you turn — because it was a cool, rainy morning.) Even the waiting areas were warm and comfortable, the kind of place you could easily spend the day with a good book.

I was assigned a locker, terry robe, and slippers and told where to meet my “service provider.” I wasted no time getting undressed and slipping on the robe. By the time I found a seat in the corner of the waiting area, I was already relaxed.

When I tell my friends that I prefer a good facial over a massage, they think I’m crazy. I think it’s because they’ve never had a good facial.

Here’s the brochure description of what I experienced this morning:

Arizona Aromatherapy Facial. 60 minutes. Restoration. Ease tension through the healing gifts and remedies of the desert. Choose from desert lavender for balance or chamomile for restoring your skin from the desert sun. Th healing is all encompassing with an invigorating lavender foot experience, a scalp and hand massage, as well as couperose skin ampoule.

(And yes, I’m very glad I don’t have to write this kind of silliness. I simply could not spread it thick enough, if you know what I mean.)

The point is, a good facial tends to more than just your face.

My service provider, Heather, led me to a private, softly lighted room with the gentle sounds of New Age music. While she stepped out into the hall, I slipped out of my robe and into a “cocoon” of sheet-lined towels on a special padded table molded to keep my body in a reclined sitting position. Then Heather returned to get to work.

She began with my hands. She put some creme on my nails and cuticles, then used fragrant massage oils to massage my hands. Then each hand went into a baggie with a warm sand-filled mitt over it. I can’t describe how good it felt. It was like wearing heated mittens on a cold day.

She then moved on to my arms, which got an excellent massage with more aromatic moisturizers.

Then she started on my “face,” which began at my upper chest and went all the way to my hairline. Lots of steam and different cremes and exfoliating gels and moisturizers. She told me what each one was as she applied it, but I don’t remember any of it. They all smelled really good. There was a hot towel on my face and shoulders whenever something needed to be wiped off.

Then the neck, shoulder, and scalp massage. I cannot imagine a back massage feeling as good as this.

Then more cream on my face and a warm towel while she went to work on my feet and lower legs, with moisturizer and a good rub. They got plastic baggies and warm booties, too.

All this took about an hour. I was completely relaxed, feeling almost on the verge of sleep. I don’t think I said more than a dozen words during this time — and anyone who knows me personally can attest to the fact that I rarely keep my mouth shut.

Heather finished my face with some moisturizing oils and unwrapped my feet and hands. Then she left me alone again to rerobe. She met me outside the room with a cup of cold water, then escorted me back to the waiting area, where she recommended ten to fifteen minutes in the inhalation room. I made a beeline for it.

Now I need to make a distinction between aromatherapy at a quality spa and the kinds of “aromatherapy” products you can buy in candle shops and cosmetics shops and home shopping parties. The crap you buy for home use at these places is crap. It’s over-scented, made with chemicals that could probably make you sick if you use them often enough, and gives aromatherapy a bad name. While I don’t buy into the idea of certain smells giving certain benefits, I do know that a room full of fresh air that is lightly infused with the scent of eucalyptus or mint or rosemary or some combination of these things clears my sinuses and makes me want to breathe deeply all day. It also makes me want to throw out all those crappy, smelly candles I’ve managed to collect — mostly as gifts — over the past ten years. I don’t want a cheap alternative. I want the real thing.

Anyway, I had a great time at the spa, although I didn’t stay very long. I didn’t have a swimsuit with me, which is required for several areas. But I made a conscious decision to do this more often, despite the rather high cost. Whether I return to the Princess’s spa or start checking out the ones in other luxury resorts in Phoenix and Scottsdale remains to be decided. (Frankly, I can’t imagine any other facility being nicer than this one, so why try the others?) All I know is that I deserve to be pampered once in a while and I’m going to make sure I get the pampering I deserve.

As for facial vs. massage, why not give it a try? Report your findings in the comments here.